


Death and Taxes

by Aromene



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Don't Examine This Too Closely, Gen, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, I Don't Even Know, Money
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 05:22:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3638316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aromene/pseuds/Aromene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes. Henry is not certain about the first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and Taxes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Matt Miller, ABC, a bunch of other people.
> 
> You know, the problem with a new obsession is that it tends to be all consuming. This time I firmly blame Ioan Gruffudd. Actually no, that’s not accurate. I blame Wales.

Jo once subtly enquired as to how he and Abe live in a rather large piece of New York real estate in such an upmarket area of the city. Henry had not bothered with the obvious lie, which was that Abe did rather well with his shop. It was blatantly untrue, and Jo knew that.

‘Abraham was blessed with a rather sizable inheritance. Two divorces has not quite liquidated it all,’ he says, trying to maintain a light tone.

As he had hoped, Jo smiles in a manner of commiseration. ‘Well, I’m glad she didn’t take it all. It’s a nice shop, and Abe obviously loves his history.’

Which is, perhaps, the understatement of the century. And Henry would know.

‘Indeed he does. And, as you know, I have a passion for it as well. Our arrangement works well for us both.’

Jo raises an eyebrow at that, but whereas a few months ago she might have thought he was making a sly comment, she knows better now. She may not have figured out the truth of his and Abe’s relationship but she knows it’s not that. 

‘Well, however he affords it, I guess you’re both pretty lucky you get to do what you love.’

Henry cocks his head slightly. ‘As do you, Detective.’

She nods and turns to greet Hanson as he comes to report on the crime scene they’re visiting.

If only she knew the truth. Henry began putting money aside as soon as he had managed to get himself out of custody, after Nora had cursed him to the asylum. He had no idea at the time if his condition was permanent, or if he had stopped aging, but it seemed prudent to start making plans against any future eventualities. And minimize the risk of ending up in another asylum. 

By the time he and Abigail had met on the fields of WWII, Henry was considerably well off, though he didn’t show it. Abigail had little interest in a lifestyle other than what she was born to, and so they lived in comfort, though not in wealth. Their honeymoon on the Orient Express was one of the few luxuries she allowed. Henry did not mind, for although his childhood had been one of servants (and even slaves) and large homes, he had left that all behind when Nora cast him out. 

After that honeymoon, things had not changed in New York. They lived in an apartment, rather than a house and it suited them. Henry had liked America, at least the America of the 1950s. It was prosperous and vibrant, having suffered only indirectly during the War. Abigail had flourished in the metropolis and Abe had made friends with ease. And Henry had, slowly, worked his way into a different career, no longer able to keep his oath of ‘first do no harm’. 

But America was not England, and Henry had soon discovered that his ways of dealing with money and fake inheritances posed a great deal more difficulty amongst the scions of Wall Street than it ever had in London. In 1968, he had for the first time purposefully used his death in order to put Henry Morgan aside, and turn over his estate to Abe, who had been living off it ever since, despite two divorces. Henry had continued to work, and therefore earn income, and had managed well enough in the years Abe had lived with his wife, or on his own. But Henry had winced when he heard what the death tax had been, and the estate tax, and the half a dozen other taxes that America charged when money changed hands. It had never used to be like that back in the old country.

But this was the new world, and with that came certain obligations, and certain privileges. If the taxes had caused him to wince, the return, which was the New York disinterest with, well, everyone, had meant that slipping inside a new life and identity took little skill. And slipping back into Henry Morgan, thirty years later, was almost as simple, despite the use of computer databases. New Yorkers tended to take you at face value, and skill counted for a lot in America. As much as reputation and a good family had counted for in England. 

He had left Abe the money though, because that way, there was no tax to pay, beyond the daily taxes of a capitalist system. He hadn’t lied when he’d told Jo Abe lived off his inheritance money. That was entirely the truth. Just as much as the fact that Henry lived off his rather sizeable income as an ME. Living with Abe in recent years had meant, however, that Henry enjoyed the benefits of his own money, without having to worry about the taxes every time he needed a new identity. The benefits, as it were, of both worlds.

Death was, for him, a certainty, but not as it was for everyone else. Taxes, on the other hand, were something even an immortal couldn’t escape for long.


End file.
